Just Between You and Me

by Jenny B. Jones

  Steps thud from the other side, then the door swings open. Mary Katherine Blake stands in the entry.

  Her face shifts from confused to a look of hesitant pleasure. “Maggie! What a surprise to see you! Come in. I just took some blueberry muffins out of the oven.”

  Another woman who can cook. How do you get to be one of those?

  “I, um”—I slip inside, uncertainty gnawing at my gut—“I just wanted to talk to you about something. I’m sorry to stop by uninvited.”

  Her glossy coral lips lift in a smile. “You’re welcome here anytime.” She gestures to the overstuffed couch in her living room. “Take a seat. I’ll be in shortly.”

  I take my time traveling to the couch, stopping by the mantle to look at an eye-catching piece of art, surrounded by family pictures in coordinating black frames. Connor and his sister in elementary school. The entire Blake clan on a vacation at Yellowstone. Mary Katherine and her toddler grandson. Connor coaching a little league team. He smiles in every shot and wears the expression of a man sure of himself, his God, and the love of his family.

  “That one on your left is my favorite.”

  I jump at Mary Katherine’s voice. She sets down a tray on the coffee table and floats to the fireplace. “That’s Connor as a six-year- old. He’s bottle-feeding a baby bird he found in the woods. Everyone told us not to let a rambunctious child near that bird, but Connor held it like it was as fragile as spun glass. He nursed that thing back to health. Didn’t even cry when he had to set it free.” She presses her lips together and smiles. “He just knew it was the right thing to do.” She rests her hand on my shoulder. “He’s always had good instincts like that.” Her eyes rest on me, and I just stand there. Unsure of what it is I’m supposed to say.

  “Um . . . so I wanted to speak with you about—”

  “Let’s have some tea.” She claps her hands and takes a seat in a cranberry wingback, her posture straight as the chair’s. “Sugar?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She hands me a cup and saucer in a matching pink rose pattern. “Take a muffin. They’re still warm. I hope you like butter. Are you one of those healthy eaters?”

  “I had cake for dinner last night.”

  She laughs and pats my knee. “I knew I liked you.” She takes a delicate bite from her blueberry muffin. “Have you seen Connor lately?”

  “Yes. He’s been great to come over and check on my dad every day. Even brought dinner a few times.” Played with Riley. Helped her with housebreaking the dog. Even helped her with her science homework. And just stayed and talked with me on the front porch swing like we were two of the closest friends.

  “Mrs. Blake, I—”

  “Please, call me Mary Katherine.”

  I twist the napkin in my lap. “Mary Katherine, I’ve been thinking about all the times I went to the drug store with my mother.” Do I even want to know this? My mother is dead. Why am I so compelled to tarnish the image I have of her? “I know there are rules about confidentiality, but”—I take a sip of tea for encouragement—“do you know why she was on medication?”

  Mary Katherine’s eyes widen slightly as she stirs in a teaspoon of sugar. “It really isn’t my place to talk about this.”

  “I know.” I lean forward, my eyes pleading. “But you’re all I’ve got. My sister has a chemical imbalance. She’s bipolar, schizophrenic. And those are on the good days. I think I’ve been in denial about the fact that my mother must have suffered in similar ways.” I picture her laughing, swinging at the playground, serving us ice cream for dinner. “When my mother was in a good mood, it was magical. We were her favorite people. She’d devote her every minute to us, keep us entertained with crazy stories or some made-up game. But lately I’ve been remembering those other times—things I had blocked out. Like when she was down, she’d shut herself in her room and spend the whole day alone. In the dark with the covers over her head.”

  “Shouldn’t you ask your father about this?”

  “He doesn’t talk about my mom. Ever. I . . . I just needed some confirmation.”

  For a moment I don’t think she’s going to answer. Her delicate fingers secure the back of a gold earring. Then she sweeps some crumbs off the table. Pours herself another cup of tea.

  “I’m sorry.” I set my flats on the floor. “I should go. I shouldn’t have bothered you like this and—”

  “She took medicine for her chemical imbalance,” Mary Katherine says, reaching for my hand. “The doctor would often call and change her prescription. He couldn’t seem to get it regulated. And then she’d go to another doctor, and he’d put her on something different. She’d complain to the pharmacist about horrible reactions, and eventually she’d find another doctor. Finally”—Mary Katherine covers my hand with hers—“she just stopped taking everything.”

  “Are you sure? Why would she do that?”

  She shakes her head. “I think she just got tired. When she’d pick up her medicine, she’d say, ‘One more try. These will be the pills that are going to change my life.’ And then she just stopped coming in, except to occasionally bring you girls by for some ice cream.”

  The muffin is a growing bubble in my stomach. “So she just quit trying?” My adventurous, daredevil mom. Simply gave up.

  “Maggie, she was in a lot of pain. She didn’t know what she was going to wake up with from one day to the next. She was trapped in a body that didn’t work. In a brain that often didn’t belong to her. Neither one of us has any idea what it was like to be Connie Montgomery.”

  But my sister does.

  A shiver dances across my skin, and I hug my arms. “Thank you. I appreciate the information. I’m sorry I asked you to break your confidence.”

  I walk toward the door, my heart as heavy as the purse I sling over my shoulder.

  “Maggie?”

  My hand stills on the knob.

  “Your mother loved you girls. I think you were the only thing that did make sense in her life.”

  I nod, unable to look at Connor’s mom, tears pooling in my eyes.

  “She would be so proud of who you’ve become. To know that you’re living your dreams and pursuing life just as hard as she did.”

  Is that what I’m doing? “Thanks.” I race outside and start the car, my shaking hand grabbing for my phone. Connor picks it up on the second ring.

  “Hey.” I pull the car out of the driveway.

  “Maggie, are you okay?”

  I sniff again. “Yeah. I know it’s your day off, but I was wondering . . .”

  “If you could come over and help me clean a stable?”

  My smile is wobbly as I turn onto Elm Street. “No.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Skydiving.”

  Silence. “Can’t you take up knitting or that scrapbook stuff?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go by myself.”

  I hear his ragged sigh. “I’ll be at your house in ten.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I sit in the grass in a Dallas field and watch Connor and his tandem partner come in for landing. His smile is wide, his parachute red, and his dismount close to perfection.

  Minutes later, he eases down beside me, his shoulder touching mine. “Almost as exciting as a Star Wars marathon?” I ask.

  His blue eyes glance toward the sky. “Almost.”

  “I’m proud of you for not screaming like a girl. But you probably save that for contact sports.”

  Connor reclines on the ground, his muscular legs sprawled out to catch some sun. His hand makes a sweeping circle motion on my back. “You want to tell me what this was about?”

  I frown and block the sun with my hand. “Something to do. Between the hospital and the house, I’ve been cooped up for nearly two weeks. I just needed to get out.” Without invitation, I lie back, resting my head on his chest and feeling the steady heartbeat beneath his shirt. I don’t even let myself think about how perfect my cheek fits in the spot under his chin.

>   “Talk to me, Maggie.”

  “I am.”

  His hand stills. “What happened today?”

  Sometimes a girl just gets tired of holding it all in. Like a New Orleans levy, I guess I can only keep so much inside. The words just pour out. “And then your mom said she had the same mental issues that Allison has.”

  He’s quiet for a long moment. Then finally, “I’m sorry. You should’ve called me. I would’ve gone over there with you.”

  “I needed to do it alone.” I hear something like a growl rumble in his throat, but I wisely ignore it. “She said my mom stopped taking her meds.”

  “Just like Allison.”

  “Well, Allison takes drugs—just not the right ones.”

  “And now you’re sitting here mulling over how you’re going to fix this.”

  “She is my sister.”

  “But she’s not your mother. Saving Allison won’t bring your mother back.”

  I stiffen. “I know that.” Sitting up, I draw my knees to my chest. “I need to tell my dad about seeing Allison. And the money.”

  “You need to talk to your dad about your mom. It’s time to get that out in the open and have some closure.”

  I twirl a blade of grass in my hand and watch the sun cast shadows on Connor’s face. “Maybe. But until I remember the night of my mom’s death, there’s never going to be closure.”

  An hour later, I pick up Riley at school and start an early dinner. My goal for tonight’s meal is to get everything in the pot without burning the kitchen down. As the water and chicken broth heat to a boil, I sit down at the table with my laptop. Ten minutes later, I’m so engrossed in my work, I don’t even hear my dad come in.

  “What is that?”

  I nearly jump out of my seat. “Dad! What are you doing up?”

  His face pinches in a frown. “I haven’t been up much yet. Doctor said I need to walk some every day. So I figured a walk to the john and the fridge would be my exercise.” He peers over my shoulder. “Wedding dresses?”

  “Yeah, it’s a Web site I’ve designed for Beth. I found a cool template online. It’s still a work in progress, but so far I think it’s pretty chic. My friend Carley got Beth three more orders this week. She’s going to be swamped in wedding dress demands.” And she’s loving every minute of it. She’s calling her business Ivy Girl Designs.

  “Why does she want to do that?” He pulls out a chair and eases into it.

  “Because from the sale of one dress, she’s made her house payment this month. And because it’s been her dream forever.”

  He snorts. “Job’s a job.”

  I open my mouth to set him straight. Then let the words die on my tongue. He’ll never understand. Work’s always just been what you did. Didn’t have anything to do with passion.

  Going to the fridge, I pour my dad a glass of water. “Here. Take your pills.”

  He swallows two. “What are you cooking?”

  “Chicken soup.”

  His droll eyes sweep from the stove to me. “If the heart doesn’t kill me . . .”

  “Thanks a lot. My cooking’s improved, right? I mean, we’re getting healthy. Fruits, veggies—”

  “Mrs. Bittle sneaks me in her leftovers.”

  “Oh.” I pat his hand. “Don’t worry. You didn’t raise a quitter. I won’t give up.”

  He rubs his upper chest. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  The doorbell rings, and I jump up to get it. “That’s our next nanny candidate.” The first one I talked to this afternoon on my way back from Dallas didn’t even make it past the phone interview.

  I open the door to reveal a short woman, her hair in a severe bun, glasses pushed to the edge of her nose. “Mrs. Persimmon?”

  She nods.

  “Please come in.” I step back and watch her assess the house, her brown eyes sweeping the living room and into the kitchen.

  She spies my father sitting at the table. “I only watch children. I don’t take care of the elderly.”

  I can hear his sputtering from here. I plaster on a smile. “Oh, don’t worry. Give him a box of Depends and he’s self-sufficient.”

  Dad shakes his head and grumbles all the way back to his bedroom. I know he’ll be asleep in minutes.

  I lead Mrs. Persimmon to the couch, and I sit across from her. We get the niceties out of the way, then I get down to business.

  “Do you cook?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  Snippy. Strike one. “My niece can be quite the handful, but she’s also led a very . . . difficult life and sometimes acts out. Tell me your philosophy on discipline.”

  The woman purses her pale lips. “I believe that discipline is discipline. It doesn’t matter what the child’s excuse is. Wrong is wrong, and I won’t be indulgent.”

  “Uh-huh.” I jot down some notes on a legal pad. “And if Riley did act up, what would a typical punishment be? For example, I grounded her from TV recently.”

  Mrs. Persimmon rests her hands in her lap. “I don’t believe in television, so that would have to go right away anyway.”

  Strike two.

  I remind myself to stay positive. “Would you have activities planned for my niece to take the place of TV?”

  “Yes. I have many books that I’d love to share with her. Classics, of course. Charles Dickens, Shakespeare, Jules Verne, and—”

  “Other dead white men?” I stand up and try for an encouraging smile. “I’m going to be honest with you. My niece dislikes me enough as it is. This would push her right over the edge.” I lead Mrs. Persimmon to the door. “Thank you for coming by. Have a safe drive home.” And you are never getting within five feet of my niece.

  Riley appears at the top of the stairs, holding Matilda. “Was that my new governess?” she says in her best British accent.

  “Avon lady.” I lean against the door. “I told her you didn’t want any Skin So Soft, and she left.”

  Riley’s eyes do a full rotation before she returns to her room.

  After sitting through an awkward dinner with Riley during which she alternates between sighs and throwing me the death stare, I wash the dishes, then take Dad a tray of soup and crackers.

  “You awake?” I bump the door open with my hip as Dad raises himself to a seated position. His breath is ragged from the effort. So surreal to see this hard man brought down to quivering weakness.

  He leans against his pillow and sniffs the air. “Is that the soup you were making?”

  “No. The garbage disposal was asking for a sacrifice, so I had to give it up and pour it down the drain. But the good news is, I spared your granddaughter.” I set the tray over his legs. “This is Campbell’s chicken noodle. Just like Mom made it.”

  A hint of a smile appears. “Your mom never could cook. If it weren’t for me, you’d have grown up on ice-cream sundaes and chicken nuggets.”

  “Yes.” I tuck a napkin into his T-shirt collar. “Thank goodness you saved me from that.”

  I help him eat as much as he’ll allow before shooing my hands away. Finally, I collapse in a nearby chair as he moves on to some Jell-O that I’m proud to say I didn’t screw up.

  “Do you remember what you said to me after first waking up from surgery?”

  His spoon pauses near his lips. “No telling.”

  I pick at an imaginary piece of lint off my jeans. “You told me to get in your wallet and leave the money out back for Allison.”

  He slowly nods. “I’ve been wondering about her. She hasn’t called me to harass me for any more cash, so I assumed she was okay.”

  “You can’t keep feeding her habits, Dad.”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  “She’s my sister. And Riley’s mother, and she’s a mess.” The stubborn lift of his chin tells me what he thinks of my opinion. “I saw her last week. I waited for her, actually.” At this I have his attention. “She said something that I hadn’t put together myself yet. Probably hadn’t wanted to—that Mom was mentally il
l like Allison.”

  He dips his spoon into the bowl. “Not that bad, but yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why didn’t we ever talk about this?”

  “There wasn’t anything I could do about it.”

  “We could’ve helped her.”

  “Don’t you think I tried?”

  I just stare at the man. Unable to agree. Unable to believe he did a single thing.

  Dad focuses on the blanket covering his legs. “We didn’t know what to do for her. She didn’t know, and I sure didn’t. The doctors weren’t much help. Her condition was an even bigger mystery then than it is now. I—” He takes a sip of water and rests a moment. “I failed her. I know that. Your mother was this erratic, unreachable person. Every day she was different, and you couldn’t reason with her.”

  “Did you ever love her?”

  My father shoves his bowl to the other side of the tray. “I was a good provider for your mother and this family. If you want to stand there and tell me it wasn’t enough, then you go ahead. But that’s all I knew how to be.”

  “You worked so much because you didn’t want to be home with her.” My dad, the man of the house, didn’t know how to take care of his own wife.

  “Did you give Allison the money?”

  I don’t even bother getting into that story. “No, she didn’t take it.”

  “Put it out there in the shed. She’ll get it.”

  “Dad, she’s really unbalanced right now. She was saying crazy things about you not letting her see Riley. I don’t really think—”

  “Put it out there, Maggie.” He turns his head into the pillow and his eyes blink with heavy fatigue. “I couldn’t help your mother, but I’m not going to lose your sister.”

  I pull his door shut, take the tray downstairs, and pad to the kitchen. Later, I sit in my room, my laptop on the bed beside me, and I stare at the faces of all the children who need me. But how can I help them when I can’t even help my own sister?

  The dream finds me again that night.

  I wake up drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, and afraid to close my eyes. I reach for the phone beside me and hit redial.

  “Hey,” comes Connor’s sleep-laced voice. “What’s wrong?”